


where the light is

by meekinheritance



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Dirty Talk, Dom Wade Wilson, Dom/sub, Explicit Sexual Content, Finger Sucking, Light BDSM, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Responsibility, Safe Sane and Consensual, Service Top, Size Difference, Sub Peter Parker, Subspace, Trans Peter Parker, Vaginal Fingering, soft dom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:48:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24036895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meekinheritance/pseuds/meekinheritance
Summary: On occasion, Peter finds himself in a Kink Club, mostly to remind himself that what he's looking for - if he were even able to put it into words in the first place - doesn't actually exist outside of his own head.This time, though, is different, because when he looks across the bar, Wade Wilson is there.(Wade and Peter have been doing team ups for a few years now. Wade's seen Peter's face, Peter's seen his, so when they meet eyes at the club, as themselves, the jig is up. Then, the jig isdown.)
Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Comments: 45
Kudos: 374





	where the light is

It’s a strangely casual affair, considering Peter usually clings so tightly to his secret identity. 

He sits down at the bar, orders a dark beer to settle his stomach, and tries to see if anything around appeals to him this time around. Alone, at night, in the safety of his own head, there are parts of this that he thinks he likes, thinks he might even need. 

But the few times he’s found his nerve and actually made his way into a Kink Club, he finds almost nothing attractive about it. He doesn’t mean to judge; certainly this must do it for some people. The leather and latex and degradation, the _overt_ nature of both sides of the proverbial coin.

There are so many toys and straps and gadgets and _weapons_ and _masks_ , it’s like being at _work._

After the third time, he decides it must be his own issue. Clearly, the fact that he’s never found a real, live Dominant attractive once they start strutting and puffing their chest means _something_. The Submissives Peter has observed in clubs and the submissively-inclined people in forums online rarely seem to take issue with it. They like the Dom with a Capital ‘D’, like being called rude names, like being condescended to. They want to be ‘put in their place’. If they have reservations, they tend to take a backseat to what their Dom prefers entirely, with a shrug, like that's the whole _point_.

It leaves a bad taste in his mouth, dishonest and cloying. The potential Doms he talks to all seem to be either be sex-obsessed, sadists, or age-players. He never stays long and he never leaves with anyone.

Peter guesses he doesn’t actually know what he wants, or if the feeling he’s searching for even exists outside of a vague, yearning whisper when he touches himself. Except that he’s back, _again._ He quits thinking about it for months, until the buzzing at the back of his brain makes it impossible to sleep. 

He recognizes Wade from over the top of his glass when he walks in through the front door. He’s hard to miss, with his scars, but he looks more comfortable in the dim, crimson lighting than Peter has ever seen him before. Not that he’s often without his mask, which is telling enough on it’s own. A few people glance Wade’s way, but no one seems particularly unnerved. 

In truth, he probably could have ducked below the bar to avoid him, but he doesn’t. 

Maybe he’s hoping that, because it was brief and several months ago, Wade’s forgotten what he looked like. His mask had snagged and torn off during a team-up, and Wade had put him against a wall almost before he realized it himself. He’d blocked the villain’s view, and a few bullets, while Peter shot a web and fished his mask from the ground back into his palm.

It had only taken a few seconds, all in all.

“Hey,” Peter says, when Wade sits down on the stool next to him.

“Hey, baby boy.”

So much for that. 

He knows this should probably be more nervous than he is. Aunt May and MJ are the only other people who know, and even if Wade’s been trustworthy for this long, it shouldn’t be _this_ simple of a shift.

“So, uh, you…”

Peter doesn’t know what he was going to ask, and is relieved when Wade interrupts him.

“Wanna go get tacos? This place doesn’t serve food, _obvs_ ,” He gestures at the various stations and stages. Blood and semen might make food service unhygienic, Peter supposes. “Unless you got a special food play request. I _assume._ I know I said that like I know for sure, but I actually don’t. I just said it that way because I’m hilarious. And food play is extra hilarious. Just put it in your _mouth,_ y’know? Butts can’t taste things. At least, mine can’t.”

Peter chokes on a laugh, and then,

“Yeah, you know me,” Peter says, meeting Wade’s eyes in confirmation, just in case there had been a question. “I can always go for tacos.”

  
  
  


They end up with burritos instead, so that they can walk while they eat. 

Peter knows that they aren’t far from Deadpool’s apartment, and is annoyed at how that thought introduces itself so easily. He’s been to the apartment before, a handful of times after a difficult patrol night. They end up ordering pizza or chinese and watching something brainless until Peter feels replenished enough to wing home. It’s always been fun, and Deadpool is always a flirt, but it’s never felt quite like this does. He’s noticed Wade’s body before, his voice, especially, but being in his Spider-man suit doesn’t actually make him inclined to get frisky. It’s usually a reminder of why the Kink Club appeals to him so much anyway, and then a cyclical path to _can’t have that, doesn’t exist._

Wade keeps the discussion going, describing some television show Peter has never seen in detail, and then changing the subject at a-mile-a-minute. He points out little things as they pass by them, comments on people’s posture and gate and expressions. There’s more nervous energy in him tonight than just the usual chaotic conversation, and Peter can’t tell if it’s because he doesn’t have his mask on. His hoodie is pulled up, but it doesn’t hide the texture of the scars along his face.

It’s odd how similar it is to how they act when they’re in their suits, though it _is_ a tad more awkward.

“- which is how I knew he was hiding a knife up his ass,” Wade explains emphatically, as Peter crumples up his burrito wrapper and tosses it into a nearby trash bin. “Madman! I might have honestly been impressed if he hadn’t shown his hand, if he actually managed to dig it out and kill me for a hot sec, but we can’t all get what we want.”

“You _want_ to be stabbed with an ass-knife?” Peter laughs.

“I mean, no, but I’m not ruling it out _completely,_ ” Wade grins back, and then stops walking abruptly. Peter is mid-step when he does, and has to turn back to look at him. “My point being, that a lot of my job in the military and as a mercenary was just being able to read people real well.”

“I thought your point was not to hide a knife up your ass,” Peter says, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand just in case there’s any red sauce lingering at the corners of his mouth.

“What? Nah, that’s a low-key solid move if you can get away with it,” Wade tells him, and Peter doesn’t think he’s joking. “My point is, _I can read people real well_.”

Oh. Peter feels a wire of tension wind through his shoulders. He’d almost forgotten how this night started, carried away on the wind of Wade’s boundless words.

“So?” Peter challenges, crossing his arms over his chest.

Wade takes in his stance pointedly.

“You were in there for a reason, Webs.”

“Peter,” he corrects, almost absently, but it’s more to distract from directly responding to what Wade just said. Wade goes momentarily tense, eyes brightening.

“Peter,” he says, _much_ too deeply. It almost feels like his spidey-sense is going off, but warmer, and actually totally different. “I’ve noticed a few things about you, and I thought I was - y’know, _crazy,_ because I _am,_ but seeing you in there tonight confirmed a few things.”

Peter scowled, which seemed better than blushing.

“Why were _you_ there?”

“Because I’m a degenerate who likes to fuck,” Wade answers succinctly, and Peter tries not to linger on the way his teeth hit his bottom lip when he says _fuck_ . “There is very little I haven’t tried, or at least looked into, _in detail._ Besides, places like that… I mean, have you seen the dudes in there? A few hotties, for sure, but for the most part what a Dom looks like doesn’t matter so much as his experience and technique. Which I’m sure you can tell, is a score for someone with all _this_ going on.”

“Shut up, Wade, you’re not ugly.”

His blue eyes roll as he shrugs. “Not if you’re blindfolded, no.”

Peter suddenly, vividly, wants to be blindfolded. Not for the reason that Wade says, but for the way that he says, it, soft and lilting and playful.

“Huh,” Wade says, lips curling into a warm and satisfied expression. 

“Shut up,” Peter grumbles, looking at the harsh light of a lampost off to the right.

“Aw, c’mon, now, baby boy, don’t close off on me,” Wade murmurs, the tone of his voice more soothing than it has any right to be. Peter lets his gaze shift back towards him, and the expression on Wade’s face is _so_ pleased that Peter doesn’t even regret it. 

  
“So you’re a Dom, then.”

“I can be,” Wade answers lightly. “I dabble. My preferences change, depending on my partner. Chemistry and dynamics shift. I like to watch, figure out where the button is, and push it.”

Peter wets his lips nervously. 

“You said you noticed things?”

“Hm?” Wade hums, eyes honed in on Peter’s mouth sharply.

Christ. That’s not just warmth, that’s _heat,_ spreading from his chest down to his hips. He’s actually attracted to Deadpool. He doesn’t just like his muscles and his voice and his sense of humor. He doesn’t just trust him with his life. He doesn’t just -

All of that is starting to sound like more than just ‘ _justs’._

“You noticed things,” Peter repeated, feeling light-headed. “about me.”

“Probably shouldn’t talk about it out here,” Wade says cautiously. “My apartment is down the street. I know you know this, but I just want to talk.” He drags his eyes over Peter’s form, and leaves heat in the wake of his gaze everywhere it travels. “That’s a lie, _super_ sorry about that, honey, but the point is, hanging out is all I expect from you. We could just chill and rewatch Community.”

Wade slides his hand in through his hoodie and rubs the back of his neck sheepishly.

“That’s not really an _expectation_ either, actually, just something I would always be down for, so if I’ve been too much of a creep tonight for you to be in my company, that is also _very_ understandable.”

Peter feels stupidly endeared in spite of himself.

“C’mon then,” He says, walking in the direction of Wade’s apartment ahead of him so that he doesn’t have to look at the excited light in those expressive eyes and feel _too_ good about it.

  
  
  


The door is barely shut behind him when Wade starts talking, and it shouldn’t surprise him as much as it does. Wade _talks,_ that’s literally his _thing._ What he says, though, the earnestness with which he says it actually shakes Peter all the way through to his bones. 

Peter feels a little like his legs are turning to jelly with nerves, and the couch is suddenly intimidating, so he takes a step back and leans against the door. Wade turns toward him, and makes a soft sound in his throat that Peter doesn’t know the meaning of when he looks down at him. 

He’s about to ask, even though it’s difficult to do so under that stare, when Wade word-avalanches.

“I got voices in my head that aren’t very nice. You know that. But there’s also my own voice, just as loud and annoying as you’d think, and I got a memory on me,” Wade starts to explain, and plants his hand above Peter’s head on the door. It lends emphasis to how much taller and broader he is than Peter, but it also seems like a gesture, to be sure he’s at least an arm’s length away .“I told you, I notice things, about _people._ I gather information and then I store it away in my old noggin until I can use it.”

He puts a finger to his temple and twists there a few times.

“It’s why I couldn’t forget your face,” He offers a toothy, wolfish grin, “Well, not the only reason.”

Peter doesn’t know what to say. His face burns, and even though there’s just a low light buzzing in the small open kitchen across the room, he can tell Wade can see the evidence of it.

“That’s _real_ pretty, baby boy,” He mutters, and his hand twitches like he’s going to reach forward, but he doesn’t follow through with it. Peter realizes he wishes he would. “You asked what I noticed, and it’s - just little things, y’know? I started to be able to tell when you were _blushing,_ just like you are now.”

“You’re lying,” Peter argues, “I wear a mask.”

“You tuck your chin.” Wade says. “Or turn your head. Right after I do something eye-brow _waggling_ , or talk about how your ass is carved out of marble and mount olympus clouds - _yeah_ , right there.”

He only realizes he’s started to turn his head when Wade finally does reach forward, turning his face back toward him with his index finger against his chin.

“See? Little habits,” Wade hums, “Moments. Glimpses. Mistakes. _Oh my._ Once, I put my hand on the nape of your neck, and you _relaxed,_ before you realized what you were doing and moved away. Another time, I was frustrated with you for getting all up in my junk about killing someone who was trying to put a bullet in you. Tearing me a new one. I snapped at you.”

_“You’re alive, Webs. That’s all that matters - no, you’re_ done _. Sit down.”_

He remembers that night. Remembers sitting and settling down, going calm. It hadn’t seemed so obvious, at the time. He’d thought it had more to do with the fact he’d said all he needed to say. Now, Peter doesn’t know what to say.

Wade has it covered.

“I thiiink,” Wade’s hand slips down so that he’s cradling Peter’s jaw, “You have a lot going on in that big brain of yours. You’ve mentioned something _sciency_ before. College, right? Grad school? You go out and save this city every night, and in the morning, the paper says something shitty about you.”

“I don’t care about that.”

“Of course you do,” Wade disagrees gently, “I think most people have the right idea, but not the ones with the loudest voices. The police, the news, the politicians. I’ve seen you recoil when someone who believes the bullshit doubts you. Words hurt, darling, I know that real well.”

He draws in a breath and leans closer, holding Peter’s gaze.

“For what you do for people, Pete? You deserve to be _adored_.”

Peter doesn’t _know what to say._

People don’t talk about Peter Parker _or_ Spider-man the way Wade does. His image is either as a disreputable menace, like Wade says, or wholesome neighbor. Mr. Rogers with a fun quirk, despite how little his suit leaves to the imagination. He’s never asked for adoration, or even admiration, and he doesn’t know how he feels about that being Wade’s assessment of him, even though hearing the word makes him feel so good he can barely stand being in his own skin.

He’s sure there are terrible pornos out there, like there are of everything, but that kind of thing rings the same way as the Doms from the club that need a whip in their hand to feel powerful. The pure sensuality in Wade’s voice is shocking, _thrilling_.

“Whatever happens here,” Wade tells him, so softly, “I take full responsibility.”

That’s what does it. 

Peter surges forward, closes the distance and presses his mouth against Wade’s. There’s a sigh of relief against his lips. Wade’s hands are on his hips with such assuredness that Peter barely feels his shoes lift off the ground as he spins him to the couch. He’s pressed down against it, Wade licking into his mouth so eagerly it leaves Peter breathless beneath him.

Wade pulls back, planting one hand on the back of the couch, eyes burning.

“Tell me what you want me to do.”

That’s definitely not what Peter is hoping for. He tries not to panic, mind reeling for an answer, suddenly a total blank. He goes quiet, hands still fisted in the front of Wade’s shirt.

“I, uh.”

Wade is watching, appraising,

“You what?”

“Wade,” he’s trying for _testy_ , but it comes out weaker than he means for it to.

“Go _ooon_.”

“I, uh,” Peter grimaces, feeling stupid, disappointing. “can’t.”

“Hey, now, shh, it’s alright,” Wade considers him, looking Peter over. “You don’t want to tell me. Or, you don’t want to _say_ it. Do you want to say _anything?_ ” Wade taps his fingers against his mouth, musing. “I can _guess_ , this time, but we’re going to work on that.”

He pauses, like he’s realized that ‘working on’ it means that this will happen again. It is a little presumptuous, but it doesn’t feel inaccurate.

“Yeah,” Peter agrees. Wade smiles, and brushes his knuckles over Peter’s smouldering cheek.

“You need something, baby?”

“Please,” tumbles right out of him.

“I like that,” Wade murmurs. “Already asking nicely.”

“Uh huh.” Less and less articulate with every moment that passes, every touch seeming to take a little more of his composure away, and it’s _good._ He couldn’t have pictured it this clearly if he’d tried.

Teasingly, Wade asks, “But what _for_?”

Peter grits out, “ _Wade_.”

“I know, sweetheart, or, I’m starting to get it, but here’s the thing; I _really_ can’t overstep here. I try not to anyway, with this sorta thing, but definitely not with you.” 

Wade runs his hands over either side of Peter’s face and through his hair and over the back of his neck, _petting_ like he can’t touch him _enough_. He rubs his thumbs into his ears and that feels so impossibly nice that Peter feels a keen trickle like molasses out of his mouth.

“Fuck. I swear to fuckin’ God, I’m going to take care of you,” Wade draws in a breath through his nose, nostrils flaring slightly. “but I gotta know a little bit of what that looks like for you.”

“You _know_ ,” Peter says, exasperated and quiet, cutting his eyes away. “Fuck me, or whatever.”

“Yeah,” Wade chuffs a laugh like he doesn’t believe him and leans in until Peter feels compelled to meet his eyes again, much too close now. “How?”

“You don’t know how?” Peter snarks.

“ _Ha_ . No need to get defensive.” Wade smirks, “I _mean_ , how do you _want_ it? 

Peter is just trying to find the words when Wade saves him from it again.

“See, I’m forming a bit of a picture here, what with how you’re going…” Wade shudders, voice deepening, fingers kneading his earlobes. “ _beautifully_ pliant for me right now, but I’m not sure you even quite know what you need from me. So, baby scientist, let’s experiment, shall we?”

That...sounds more like it. No spelling it out, no worrying about making decisions about the right words or the right tone or the right actions. Just scientific theory. 

“ _Yeah_.”

“Yeah,” Wade repeats, a low affirmation, and then, “Peter?”

“Hm?”

“ _Open your mouth_.”

The result is electric. Peter does, automatically, and his stomach flips when his brain catches up.

“Mhm. Wide as you can.”

Christ. Peter closes his eyes and his cheeks burn as he adjusts, letting his jaw strain. He doesn’t really know what the point of this is. How is watching him sit with his mouth open, silent, like he’s at the _dentist,_ doing anything for Wade at all? 

It can’t be sexy. Nothing about the position itself is _sexy,_ and yet Peter is still inexplicably turned on. 

“ _Good_.”

He shudders all the way to his toes.

“You like that.” It isn’t a question. “Alright, tongue out. That’s it, perfect.” 

Wade pinches the tip of his tongue and tugs on it just a tad, as if making sure it’s out as far as it can go. Then he slides two fingers all the way up the center of it until they’re lying on the flat of his tongue, to the second knuckle. 

“Suck.”

Peter closes his lips around him and pulls, suckling experimentally as he peaks his eyes open. He can see Wade seeing him now, and it’s so good it’s almost terrible. Wade’s fingers are a bit salty and scars callous every inch of them. The textured flesh isn’t unpleasant against his taste buds. 

“ _Look_ at you,” Wade mutters, “You need more?”

The sound of his jeans being unbuttoned is a distant thing, the zipper even more so.

“God, you do, don’t you?” Wade’s hand slides warmly down beneath the waistband of his jeans and underwear, sliding them both down together. Slowly - fuck, why _slowly._ Peter shifts restlessly. “Don’t worry, I’m gonna touch you, but I wanna see how good you can be.”

A full-body shiver works it’s way from the arches of Peter’s feet up to the base of his skull. Wade’s eyes catch it and he sees him close his eyes for a moment, mouthing something Peter can’t make out.

When he opens his eyes again, meets Peter’s eyes and says, 

“Here’s what’s going to happen.”

The fingers in his mouth pump out and in a few times, and Wade’s eyes fall to watch them.

“You’re gonna gag on my fingers, darlin’, no helping that, but I want you to let it happen. Relax into it, know that you’re okay, and tap out if you need to.”

He demonstrates by patting his cheek gently, and Peter’s hips and groin are so flooded with heat he’s getting dizzy from the lack of blood flow to his brain. 

Wade looks at him carefully for another minute, but doesn’t ask him if it’s okay, for which Peter is thankful. He could probably manage a nod, but answering questions is going to make him have to stretch his consciousness, and it’s only just getting cozy.

Then, Wade smoothly slides his fingers all the way to the back of Peter’s tongue, tickling the entrance to his throat. Peter _does_ gag, sputtering, and he trembles with the effort not to turn his head and knock Wade’s fingers out of his mouth entirely, or worse, bite down. 

His tongue strains like it’s trying to push the fingers out, but Wade holds fast, eyes boring into him as Peter’s focus narrows to the exceedingly vulnerable little spasms he’s making around them. 

“Shit, fuck, that’s hot, that’s so goddamn cute, Petey. I knew you’d be sweet, _thought_ about it, probably shouldn’t have thought about it quite _so_ much, if I’m honest, but look at you - pretty mouth drooling on my knuckles? I can feel your _throat_ quivering on my _fingertips_ , and you’re just -”

As if to make his point, he shifts his fingers like he’s rubbing a soothing circle into Peter’s esophagus and it makes Peter give a shuddering heave. Saliva pours down his chin. Wade’s thumb wipes at it absently, but it just smears down his neck as he grips the underside of Peter’s chin. His eyes sting.

“- _perfect,_ taking it like this. You’re alright, baby, breathe through your nose for me.”

Peter inhales through his nose in a stuttering, pitiful fashion that made Wade’s eyes darken.

“One day soon, I’m gonna empty that lovely head of yours for you and fill it with my cock instead.”

Peter’s eyes flutter shut to hide the way those words make them roll.

“Fuck, I haven’t even touched you yet.” 

He says it in awe, and almost like it’s a shame, and then cups Peter between the legs. He’s so swollen and slippery with arousal that the _squish_ is audible. Wade squeezes his handful possessively and Peter moans around the fingers, heels digging into the arm and back of the couch respectively as he rises into the pressure. Heat simmers in his hips and turns molten just beneath. 

He can’t close his mouth or even seal his throat up. A succession of sounds are retched and _wrenched_ out of him as Wade digs the heel of his hand against his slit firmly.

“When I fuck you, it’s gonna be so goddamned hot, my brain is going to melt out of my ears.”

Wade groans and digs his fingers in, the rough fingertips curling and brushing against Peter’s clit in a way that makes sparks shoot up his spine and down to his toes, both of which start to curl.

“- your pretty blush and your precious little noises -”

In the same motion that Wade drags his fingers back over Peter’s tongue on the way out, he slides his middle finger down his folds and inside lazily. He’s so wet there’s almost no resistance at all, just an obscene sound of his slick being displaced with the motion. Wade’s fingers hook on Peter’s bottom teeth, keeping his mouth open and using his grip to pull Peter down as his finger surges up. 

The sound Peter makes isn’t unlike the half-choked whimpers he’d been making before. It draws out of him like a song note and breaks pitifully Wade’s knuckles sit snug against his vulva. 

“ - shit, your perfect body clenching on me, yeah, just like that, holy fucking shit -”

Then Wade’s finger draws an identical circle inside him to the one he’d made at the back of his throat. His body lights his body _up_ and his mind shuts _down_.

“- it’s gonna _kill me,_ Peter.”

Wade presses his forehead against Peter’s and whispers softly, prayer-like, except not like a prayer at all.

“Thank fuck I can come right back and have you again.”

Wade pulls back, only to press inside more firmly, and rubs again, at a slightly different angle, searchingly. This time the breath isn’t sucked out of his lungs, it’s _expelled,_ pushed out like he’s been struck by an uppercut. Peter cries out, flailing, hands coming up to clutch at Wade’s shoulders as his heels skid over the fabric of the cushions.

“ _Yeah_ , just hold onto me, I got you. Open right on up for me, that’s _perfect,_ baby.”

The hand still wet with Peter’s spit slides around to the nape of his neck and _squeezes,_ using the hold to keep him from climbing backward as the finger twists deeply into him, _again_. 

Peter arches high off of the couch, as high as the accompanying sound that he makes, a tense bowstring between the hand wrapped around his neck and the one between his legs. The back of his head digs into the cushion beneath, neck fully stretched out and held in the warm, broad palm of Wade’s hand.

“You’re so worked up, it’s fucking gorgeous, but I’m gonna need you to relax for me now. Do you like my hand back here? It helps, doesn’t it?”

He tightens his fingers and Peter’s vision slips out of focus.

“Theeeere you go, baby boy. Now, I’m going to finger your lovely cunt until you come. Twice. Might be able to get three out of you. Do you think?”

No, Peter doesn’t. Think, that is. 

He slowly catches up to the words, the lewd promise and speculation, and heat sears through his ears and radiates across his cheeks and neck.

“Sh...shuddup.”

_Gottem_ , he thinks deliriously. 

“I think you know that’s not in my nature,” Wade laughs, nosing a line up Peter’s jaw. Then, softer, seriously, “Did I use the wrong word?”

“Huh?”

“I got carried away, said _cunt_ ,” Wade reminds him, and the blush simmers a little hotter to remind Peter it’s there. “S’okay to say that? Would pussy be better, or I know some -”

“ _God_.”

He doesn’t ever shut up. 

Yeah, he’s seeing it now. Peter can usually keep up, but in this state he’s at least a dozen words behind. 

“You call your vagina _God,_ Peter? That’s a little narcissistic of you,” Wade grins, rubbing his thumb and forefinger just beneath Peter’s ears. “Cunt is good for now then, yeah? How about _clit_ , is that fine?”

Peter nods shakily, and in reward, Wade drags his thumb over it. 

His thighs shoot together, pressing inward and around Wade’s wrist tightly as the feeling wrings a moan out through his teeth. Wade doesn’t seem to mind; it’s a simple shift of his wrist, by now, to fuck into Peter with his finger and toy with his clit all at once. He feels like an instrument, or a puppet, with the way Wade is working a series of increasingly needy noises out of his mouth.

“Can you believe that I’ve thought about these thighs clamping on me hundreds times?” Wade groaned as he rocked his finger in and rubbed his thumb over the nub of flesh, coaxing at the hood. “Scratch that, that was me downplaying. I’m real coy, deep down, so ...might actually be thousands _._ ”

When he says _thousands,_ he curls and _grinds_ both of his fingers against their respective nerve bundles.

“Nuhhhhhh,” Peter hears himself as it stretches out of his throat and into the air between his lips and Wade’s, where he hovers within devouring distance. 

“My wrist, my head, my hips.”

“Wade, _fuck_.”

“Yeah,” Wade agrees softly, extracting his finger languidly while his thumbnail scrapes gently. He snaps his wrist back, and repeats the motion before Peter has his breath back.

He makes that sound again, helpless to stop it. He feels so hot, he can’t think, suspended by the places where Wade is touching him. He scratches at Wade’s broad shoulders, but his nails don’t dig, they just skid weakly over the deltoid muscles, snagging on the fabric of his shirt.

“You gonna cum?”

“Ahh- _hahhh_ , please.”

“Go on, baby,” Wade murmurs, and then ducks to bite down on Peter’s lower lip as his body seizes up in orgasm. Peter can barely hear himself through the blood rushing in his ears, but still somehow manages to hear Wade snarl through his teeth and the nibble of Peter’s flesh, “Yeah, that’s _perfect_.” 

That’s the moment his mind buckles, his last coherent thought something like _this, yes_ , _thank god._

After the first, the second comes almost embarrassingly fast. Wade tenderly fingers him through the spasms, eases him down to lingering aftershocks, and then just as Peter is breathing with a semblance of calm, he increases the pressure again. He doesn’t take as much time working up to the deeper, harder touches this time, fucking him in earnest, stroking mercilessly.

The hand wrapped around his nape is big enough that Wade’s thumb and forefinger are only a couple inches from meeting at the front. He’s been kneading into either side for the most part, but now they stretch their full expanse, thumb finding right about center. He puts the lightest pressure there, restricting the tiniest bit of airflow, and when he comes again, a second finger pries inside along with the first like that’s how Wade is keeping fucking _track_. 

His walls are so sensitive by now that the stretch feels like a yawn after waking, the sensation almost luxuriously profane in its pleasure. His defenses are down, he’s barely made it to the end of one climax and now he’s being wrangled in the direction of another. There’s no cool-down this time, not really, it just doesn’t _stop,_ winding him up further and making him burn. 

Peter’s mouth falls open like Wade’s fingers are still weighing his jaw down, and the sound he makes is low and raw and overwhelmed as the fingers tuck themselves inside to the hilt.

“How the _fuck,_ ” Wade hisses, and at least his voice is breaking too. 

They pull out at such a sluggish pace, so snug within him that he feels as though he can feel every bump and ragged edge of those scars. They turn just slightly, and push back inside at the same perfect, terrible pace. Peter is pretty sure his soul leaves his body.

His arms and legs feel heavy this time, so his fingers just clutch the corners of the cushion beneath him, not even fisting as tightly as he imagined he would. His fingers pulse into a tighter ball when the fibrous pad of Wade’s thumb paints rough circles around his clit at the same time those digits pump inside and bend _just_ so.

Wade hasn’t shut up for more than a few seconds at a time. It seems almost involuntary, and Peter’s mind can only catch snippets as his body coils higher and tighter with every pass. Sweet and salacious nothings in a desperate, throaty voice while he kisses and nips his ear. Things like _sweet boy, perfect boy_ and _made for this_ and _you love it, holy shit, you’re an absolute wreck for this_ and a dozen other things Peter doesn’t have the mind to be ashamed of.

It’s only after he comes on Wade’s fingers again, gasping and shaking while Wade holds his hips up off the cushions by the catch of his fingers, that Peter can start to realize what a mess he must be, covered in sweat and saliva and slick, every inch of him quivering and fucked-out. Wade lowers him back down only when Peter has gone completely slack, let’s him crumple.

His neck is released and Peter makes a reluctant sound that Wade smothers with a kiss as he pets Peter’s hair back away from his forehead, sticky with perspiration and matted at the back. 

The fingers don’t leave him immediately, they just fill him while Wade strokes his other hand over his chest and up his arms. Kisses smatter all over his face and jaw and neck, each one bringing a little more awareness back to him, words like _so good_ and _just right_ and _goddamn_ _gorgeous_ whispered into the skin.

When those fingers do pull out, it’s with an accompanying bite on Peter’s shoulder. The teeth sink in and Wade sucks hard on the trapped skin as the digits are slowly uprooted, the feel of that alone enough to push a tremulous sigh out of him. 

It takes ages to make conscious connections again. He could probably pass out right here and now with a sleepy smile pulling at his mouth. 

“Motherfuck,” Wade says, staring down at him appreciatively.

“Don’t…” Peter finds his way around his tongue again. “Don’t talk about _mothers_ after that.”

“Common misconception,” Wade says, holding up his glistening fingers and licking them off one by one, conversationally. Peter’s stomach clenches with heat, so spent he _aches_ with it _._ “It’s not about fucking mothers, it’s the _mother_ of all _fucks._ The best booty. The absolute peak pork -”

The first thing Peter does with the strength coming back into his arms is shove a throw pillow in Wade’s face.

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> you will know all of my kinks by the end of this fic, my good dudes. been a while since I wrote smut, especially this detailed, and I'm pretty proud of it. as you can tell, praise kink is a Thing, so please for the love of god tell me how much you liked this~


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